The Definition of Human Unreliability
by evizyt
Summary: In the LONG ANTICIPATED SEQUEL to The Travesty of Human Fallibility, we learn The Definition of Human Unreliability, as Ophelia's been kidnapped, Draco and Harry are on the run, and Hermione and Ginny are left to pick up the pieces. But guess who's here to help? "Just call me Mr. Wonderful," Blaise Zabini said smoothly, swaggering into the room. HDr, GWBZ
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: And so the cycle continues… _

_"It's too bad, really," Harry was saying to her. "You were our last hope, the last lifeline of humanity, our walled, unbreachable fortress."_

_"What?"_

_"In the end, even you couldn't resist. Even you, Hermione, even you fell victim to Malfoy's charm."_

_"And don't forget my dashing good looks!" Draco threw in, smirking as only he could. Hermione smiled a little, and shrugged sleepily. "It's a travesty," she said. "The travesty of human fallibility."_

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**The Definition of Human Unreliability**

**In the LONG ANTICIPATED SEQUEL to The Travesty of Human Fallibility, we learn The Definition of Human Unreliability, as Ophelia's been kidnapped, Draco and Harry are on the run, and Hermione and Ginny are left to pick up the pieces. But guess who's here to help? "Just call me Mr. Wonderful," Blaise Zabini said smoothly, swaggering into the room. HDr, GWBZ**

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Chapter 1

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"Bye, love," Draco said, kissing Hermione on the cheek, and she smiled shyly at him. The warmth that shot through her when he called her that was still unfamiliar and refreshingly welcome.

Walking down the path away from Malfoy Manor, she suddenly whipped around. He was still standing in the doorstep, watching her. She ran back to him, throwing herself in to his arms as he spun her around, both of them laughing.

Hermione felt like a teenager as she clung to Draco's neck and whirled around, giddy with emotion.

"I love you," she whispered breathlessly in to his ear, and turned her face up for his dizzyingly delicious, achingly sweet kiss, winding her fingers in his soft hair.

Finally, she drew back.

"Dinner at yours tonight?" Draco confirmed, his voice slightly deeper than normal.

"Sounds perfect," she coquetted, looking at him from beneath her lashes. "Ophelia is spending the night with her grandparents today."

"Oh, really?" Draco raised an eyebrow, although he had known perfectly well that Ophelia spent most Friday nights with Hermione's parents. "Whatever could you be insinuating, Miss Granger?"

Stepping delicately back on to the path, Hermione turned slightly so that her hair fell across her back, sliding along to the opposite side of her neck. She felt Draco's eyes trace the expanse of skin that it revealed, and took another half step away.

"Mr. Malfoy, you shock me. I was merely planning a light dinner, some wine, and," she paused, flicking her eyes up at him from beneath her lashes, "no, nothing else."

Draco took a step closer, following her. "Nothing else? Really? And here I was, thinking we had the night to ourselves…"

Hermione shrugged. "We could play checkers."

Draco barked a laugh, reaching out a hand to trace the line of her collarbone. "I can think of much…better…things to do..." His other hand snaked around her waist, sliding up the front of her shirt before she could pull away.

He pulled her lips to his with one hand, his thumb tracing patterns on her stomach with the other.

"I have to go to work," Hermione whispered against his lips.

"Be late to work," he replied, knowing she would say no.

"Okay," she gasped. "But don't get used to this. It's only because I was going to be early—"

"Granger?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

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Hermione stumbled in to work, barely late but not her usual hour early, and Ida noted (smiling to herself) that her hair was not in its usual impeccable bun. As a matter of fact, it hung rather loosely around her head, and her cardigan was buttoned incorrectly.

Ida hid a smile behind her hand as she gave Hermione her coffee and a stack of files. "Healer Granger?"

"Yes, Ida?" Hermione asked distractedly, running a hand through her hair.

"Um, your cardigan looks a little haphazard," Ida said delicately.

"_Shit_," Hermione swore, quickly re-buttoning it. "Do you suppose everyone noticed?"

Ida laughed. "No, not at all," she lied. _Yes_, she laughed to herself. _You're dating Malfoy. _

Calming, Hermione smiled. She sighed to herself, taking a long sip of coffee. "So, what have we got today?" She asked her assistant, pulling the stack of files towards herself.

"An emergency surgery this afternoon," Ida said. "A halfblood wizard, Fritz Montgomery, was found by his daughter under some combination of inexplicable curses early this morning…he's still under diagnostic examination."

"What?" Hermione barked. "Inexplicable curses? How?"

"He had a small house in Essex, he was living alone…Not much background, but the daughter was coming in for a visit, she lives in London. They're calling it an attack," Ida finished, passing Hermione the specific file. Hermione leafed through it.

"This is crazy stuff," she whispered, hissing through her teeth. 'I haven't seen curses like these since the Death Eaters."

Funny, she reflected to herself, how ten years ago felt like a lifetime away.

She continued looking through the file, scribbled in some other Healer's atrocious handwriting. "You say the diagnostic team is still working? This is just the initial read?" Ida nodded. "Alright, get me that file second as soon as it comes. Oh, and Ida—transcribe it? This is difficult enough to read without having to decipher the handwriting. Okay…" Hermione mused. "No research today…patients?"

"No departmental meetings, although the Ministry mentioned they might be sending over a member of the new funding team…" Hermione smiled to herself. "Funny how Mr. Malfoy suddenly resigned like that," Ida mused. "Apparently he felt that he couldn't quite be impartial. Anyways, my friend in the department said there's talk that he'll regain his position as Ambassador in America—"

Hermione choked on her coffee. "What? B-but," she took a deep breath, "but I heard he was miserable at that job! He got fired!"

Ida shrugged. "Who knows. There's so much politics involved in any Ministry position…"

Hermione rubbed her forehead, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Instead, she continued leafing through the files. "Oh! Speaking of Mr. Malfoy… Ah, here he is. Mr. Zabini. Haven't seen your file in a few days, whose care has he been under?"

Ida dashed to her desk, grabbing a clipboard and returning, examining it. "Um…Zabini has been under the care of Healer Alumen in the Intensive Care Ward. The reason he's been returned to your supervision is—"

"I have it right here. Oh dear, I'll need to consult Jim and hm, um, oh, damn, tell Liam he'll have to come as well. This is going to be…tricky."

"Alright…" Ida blinked. "I'll notify Healer Ford right now and we'll have to see when we can fit in to Moore's schedule."

"Perfect," said Hermione, standing up. "I've got to go see Sarah quickly," she waved a scrap of paper on her desk that was apparently some kind of note. "Then I'm going to go look at Zabini. I'll be back in an hour for Jim and then hopefully Liam will be able to see me before this afternoon…" She trailed off, already running for the door.

"Hermione?" Sarah Wallace dashed up to her before she could reach the other woman's office. "Things are improving! All of the patients who suffered from the blood transfusions are recovered, with one exception, and the patients are actually doing better because of the blood. I, I actually wanted to talk to you about the possibility of expanding our repertoire—"

"That's what I'm here to talk to you about," Hermione said brusquely. "Walk with me? I've got to go see Blaise Zabini before Jim comes over. I need a couple consultations on what to do with him. I think I'm fully briefed, but Alumen's been on the case since I worked with these patients, and Merlin knows what he's omitted from the official file."

Sarah shook her head. "He needs to learn why paperwork has a function in the world."

The shared a laugh over mutual painful experiences due to Alumen's deficiency in the paperwork department. "So," Sarah began, "apparently Malfoy attempted to have me fired because of Zabini's illness. Liam told me that he protected me, but I guess it was a close thing."

Hermione winced. "Merlin, what a prat! It wasn't your fault, Zabini had huge blood loss and you were attempting to help in whatever way possible. We're Healers, that's what we do—make high-risk decisions in tense situations, and hope they work out because we're better informed than civilians."

Sarah smiled gratefully at her. "Oh, good, I was so worried you'd be mad at me."

"Why?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"Because, you're d—" Sarah cut herself off abruptly, turning bright red. "Oh, uh, because, uh, it was a, um, dumb oversight," she stammered.

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Hermione cried, throwing her hands in the air and narrowly avoiding throwing her files as well. "Does everyone and their pregnant sister know that I'm seeing Malfoy!?"

Sarah turned, if possible, even more red. "No-_o_," she began.

"It was a _rhetorical question_," Hermione snapped. "Now if you wouldn't mind filling me in," she said, gesturing to the file as they continued to walk.

As Sarah Wallace briefed her about blood doping procedures integrating magical and muggle medicine techniques, Hermione absently taking notes as they walked towards Alumen's office, she wondered how everyone had somehow found out about her blissful private life.

"Thank Merlin for the weekend," she muttered to herself, looking forward to a peaceful Friday night and then a leisurely Sunday with her parents and Ophelia.

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She hadn't been his secretary of two years for nothing. He could tell something was off as soon as he saw her face. Tuesdays, Draco decided, were never a good day.

"What is it, Erwin?" Draco demanded, striding in as he had done every day since the beginning, and imperiously grabbing his coffee, taking a swig and then slamming it down again.

"Two things," she said dryly, calmly mopping up the spill that he had left.

"Merlin be damned! Does this office door ever work properly!" Draco shook his door aggressively, tried the key again, and was reduced to kicking it. "We need to get spelled locks, Erwin!" He shouted. "I cannot deal with this, I'm already running late!"

"Mr. Malfoy," Erwin walked slowly to the door and gently jiggled the handle, opening it with a creak. "If you want an antique bamboo door and specifically import it from Singapore, where everything made before the 1600s has inherent magical resistance spelled into its every inch, you simply cannot have it both ways. Perhaps if you were not consistently fifteen minutes late to work, you would not feel so pressed for time that keys appear inefficient."

Draco huffed angrily, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Ophelia's daycare woman always talks my ear off for three hours, and this morning Fee herself was vomiting everywhere, Hermione is taking her in to St. Mungos." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm going to leave early to go meet them there, Hermione usually takes Tuesdays off now anyways so it's not a big deal that she's missing work…" He trailed off, realizing he was talking only for his own benefit. Erwin had returned to her desk outside his office.

"Erwin!" He barked, removing his fedora and tossing it onto the rack next to his desk. "Why is it so damn hot in here!" 

"Possibly because it is mid-August, Mr. Malfoy, and temperatures tend to reach their highest around that time of the year."

"You would think it would make a difference that we were magical, and could possibly have the ability to cool the buildings we work in."

"Yesterday, Mr. Malfoy, you declared that it was strange you were required to wear a sweater in your office during midsummer, and requested that I file for removal of all cooling charms in the building. Stella has already been in earlier this morning to complain."

"Well, file for re-installation immediately," Draco snapped. "This is ridiculous."

There was a loud noise outside the office, and then Erwin's head appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Malfoy, you have a floo call."

"Who is it?" Draco snapped, flinging himself out of his chair to walk to the floo room across the hall.

"Ms. Granger."

He jogged the last few steps to the door Erwin held open, hurtling in front of the fireplace.

"Malfoy?" Hermione's voice sounded strained.

"For the last time, Hermione, how long will I have to ask you to call me Dr—" he cut off abruptly upon seeing her face.

"Leave," he said to Erwin over his shoulder. She exited quietly, shutting the door, and Draco lay down on his stomach in front of the fire, eye-to-eye with Hermione.

"Ophelia had acute heart failure, induced by an abnormality with the aorta," Hermione said in her calm healer's voice. "That sort of abnormality is only seen in children born with an arrhythmia, or people who have been poisoned."

"Ophelia's heart has always been normal," Draco stated.

"Naturally I would have had that checked upon her birth," Hermione confirmed. "I am, after all, a healer, and that sort of thing can be easily fixed to prevent situations like this."

Time seemed to freeze for a moment between the two would-be parents.

Draco found that his voice was momentarily gone. "She'll be okay?" He managed huskily.

"She'll be fine." 

He stood, brushing himself off. "I'll go to the nursery. See who she's been in contact with the past few days, start there. I'll meet you at the manor, and we can start interviewing the elves and where we've been buying our food from. I should have been more careful about all this."

Hermione's eyes crinkled, with some combination of relief, joy, sadness, and exhaustion. "See you soon." And then she was gone.

He walked quickly back to his office, beckoning Erwin in as he passed her desk.

"Get in here, what's going on right now? I have to leave again, a family emergency, so let's make this quick." She stood up, walking to the doorway.

"Two things, Mr. Malfoy." She paused, and he nodded.

Erwin held up a fancy invitation dripping with white ribbons. Even from behind his desk, Draco could make out the bright gold script. "It's a wedding invitation," she said dryly. "For the spring marriage of Ronald B. Weasley and Lunasalle L. Lovegood."

Draco choked on his coffee and then somehow still managed to burst into laughter. "A spring marriage? That's a good one. What in the world do you suppose I should get them as a wedding gift?" He grabbed his fedora, jamming it onto his hair.

"The other memo, sir, is of a different tone." Erwin stepped forward, sliding a piece of paper across the desk to him.

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't know if I can handle any other tone right now."

She shook her head. Draco grabbed it, quickly scanning its contents.

"Erwin," he said, looking up. "What does this mean?"

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**Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks so much to all who reviewed the first chapter! Responses seemed to be fairly positive, thanks! Major appreciation! Hopefully this next chapter is also up to snuff. The plot is beginning to thicken, everyone buckle your seatbelts!

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**Chapter 2**

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"I just don't understand why she won't talk to me," Harry basically whined. He was sitting on the floor, leaning his head against Ophelia's hospital cot. Hermione sat in the chair across from him.

"Look, Harry, I really don't know what to tell you. If she won't see you, she won't see you."

"C'mon, don't take that tone with me—"

"—what _tone_," Hermione interjected exasperatedly, but Harry ignored her.

"I only want to understand what happened. I still don't."

She didn't reply immediately, as Ophelia rolled over in her sleep, causing Hermione to lunge forward, holding her breath. After it became clear that she wasn't about to wake, Hermione relaxed back into her seat.

"Harry," she said slowly, "it's been almost a year. I think it's time you begin to accept that she's moving on, and you should be, too. I love you like my own brother, and I want to hate her for making you unhappy, but I love Ginny too. She needs to do what's best for herself."

He sighed, his head falling on to his knees. "I thought maybe after she had some time, she'd come to realize she missed me," he confessed, and Hermione sighed too.

"I'm no expert on romance, Harry. I barely manage to limp along. Why don't you talk to Ron, or even Luna? Maybe they would have some insight. I know Luna's been seeing a lot of Ginny lately."

Harry didn't reply, and she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. It was barely lunchtime, but the black-haired man had been looking tired and overworked of late. Hermione smiled softly. He'd still come at her call though, as always, to rub her arms and awkwardly pat her hair while she nervously sobbed.

"You'd have thought that being a healer would have eliminated the stress you feel when a friend or family gets ill," Hermione muttered to herself, watching Ophelia's chest rhythmically rise and fall. "It's always the same though."

"That helpless feeling in your stomach," Harry finished the thought for her, raising his head. "That churning, burning sensation, the panic that clouds your mind, searing behind your eyes and working its way up your esophagus."

Hermione moved to sit beside him on the floor, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Sometimes I forget I'm not alone, that you and Ron and Malfoy have been through it all too."

"Do you think about it a lot?" Harry asked. "The war, I mean?"

"I used to, more," Hermione replied. "Maybe it was more recent then, or maybe I just have more going on nowadays."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "A little more Mr. Malfoy around, eh?"

Hermione blushed. "It certainly takes up the mental space. And Ophelia was a distraction, to a certain extent. Although I would also worry about her, and that would make me reflect on the past and everything."

"Kids are amazing, aren't they?" Harry craned his neck around to look at Ophelia, and twirled a lock of her shimmering hair around his finger. Every slight blue vein was visible in her almost see-through eyelids. "She looks ill, though," he said, as Hermione felt the girl's forehead. "She's really pale."

"She's running a fever," Harry could hear the tightness in Hermione's voice. She checked her watch.

Harry sat down, patting the floor next to him. "Here, sit down. Nothing you can do right now, and he'll be here soon enough."

Hermione sat next to him, gracefully sinking into folded legs. "It'll all be fine."

"Do you know anything more about what happened yet?"

"Well, she got sick this morning," Hermione began, laying out the facts, for her benefit as much as Harry's curiosity. "She has daycare every weekday, and it runs 'till afternoon or mid-afternoon, depending. Malfoy picked her up yesterday. We alternate, and I usually take Tuesdays off and spend the day with Ophelia if it's a slow week in the ward. He brought her home last night, and we had dinner and then went for an ice cream. And then this morning she'd been poisoned." She ran a hand through her hair. "Malfoy and I are fine, obviously, so… it just, it reeks. It seems like Ophelia's been targeted, like it's something specific. And you know us, we're careful, and we're known in the wizarding world—it wouldn't be a small task, to get to her. It would take organization, and confidence, and skill."

Harry let out a long breath. "Hermione, I—"

"No, don't say you're sorry," she interrupted him. "It has nothing to do with you."

"I don't know…" Harry shrugged. "I've been so swamped with taking care of James and Lily. I feel like I haven't been there for you enough."

Hermione scooted closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder. She felt like they were in Hogwarts again, Harry comforting her after she'd had a bad test, or a fight with Ron, or anything stabilizing and normal. "Harry, don't say that. Obviously I understand. Your wife left you alone with a fulltime job and two kids, if anything, I feel like I should be doing more to help _you_."

"No, seriously. We're both busy. At any rate, Mrs. Weasley's been a godsend."

"So she didn't take sides in the divorce?"

Harry shrugged. "Well, I mean, it was awkward for a little while. But then Ginny took that foray to France and I think she realized how over my head I was. Plus, let's be honest, she wanted to see her grandkids."

Hermione laughed tiredly. "True, true. I mean, I guess she always liked you more than me, anyways."

"That's because I'm an orphan."

"Probably."

"So have you seen Ron lately?" Harry asked her, in an attempt to distract her from brooding. He reached over and smoothed out the crinkle in her brow. "You're going to get a wrinkle there if you keep doing that."

She brushed his hand away. "I'm a witch and a doctor, I think I can take care of a couple wrinkles. No, I haven't. I got his wedding invitation though. I can't believe it…"

"Believe what?"

"That it's already been a year since they met…and that Ron's finally getting married again."

She felt Harry stiffen under her head. There was an unspoken rule among their group of friends, that Ron's first marriage was rarely, if ever, discussed. Privately, Hermione believed it was probably a catalyst for many of the emotional problems that had lead to Ron's alcoholism and ultimate breakdown.

"Yeah," he grunted.

"I wonder where the wedding will be?"

"Dunno."

Hermione tried to smile. "I suppose that's not really on your list of top questions to ask Ron, is it?"

Harry ginned begrudgingly. "Nah, not really."

They quieted again. Hermione stood to sit by the edge of Ophelia's bed, stroking her hand through the little girl's curls, which were still obstinately refusing to darken from their piercing white-blonde glow. Hermione sighed softly, feeling the tears pressing against the back of her eyelids as panic and exhaustion warred within her.

Finally, she gave in to panic, laying her head next to Ophelia's and allowing the tears to mercilessly creep out.

At this moment Draco burst through the double doors into the wing, causing such a commotion that Hermione had already risen to her feet when he skidded in the door.

He took a minute to peruse the scene in front of him. Harry was still sitting, bemused, on the ground, and Ophelia lay, pale and inert on the starched hospital bed. Hermione was standing, a little bit away from him, her eyes huge and round with an edge of panic that one would normally associate with a caged animal.

Draco went to Hermione immediately, nodding briefly at Harry. She shied away from his touch, going to stand by Ophelia's bed. He walked up behind her, loosely slipping his arms around her waist. Hermione stiffened, then relaxed, leaning back against him.

Harry watched the way they moved together, feeling as though her were looking in on something intensely private. It was like an intricate dance between two highly practiced dancers; there was an inborn fluidity to their movements that spoke of a seamless comfort between them.

Draco pulled Hermione closer, letting her head loll back against his shoulder, as he kissed her cheek and hair.

"It'll be alright," he murmured in her ear, stroking her stomach with his hands. "She's strong and stubborn, she'll be just fine."

Harry slowly got up, trying not to let his knee crack, and softly padded out of the room. Through the pane on the door, he saw Hermione turn, sliding her arms around Draco's neck to rest her cheek against his. Draco swayed softly from side-to-side, never breaking contact with Hermione, content to hold her in his arms.

Harry looked away, heading to the tearoom for a quick coffee before returning to say goodbye. Observing the exchange between the two had brought up emotions he had never been comfortable dealing with. The way Hermione and Draco interacted was so easy, so _natural_, as if they'd never been apart, never hated each other, never spent long years resenting the others existence. He found it difficult, if not impossible, to remember the years of animosity without looking at them in a different light.

Hatred became children playing, name-calling a way of teasing and concealed attraction. He sometimes questioned whether Hermione and Draco had ever really hated one another at all.

Deep down, he knew that it had been real. Now, it might just look like children playing, and the animosity of teenagers. At the time, however, it had been deadly serious. There had been an impending war, and lines in the sand had never been more clearly drawn, sides more vigilantly taken. But watching the two interact now, an observer would never suspect.

"They have really fallen in love," he muttered to himself, pressing the elevator button for up. And then, before he could stop himself, before he could button his mouth shut, before he could permanently suppress the thought (because saying it would be an acknowledgement that he wasn't sure he could deal with right now, if ever) it slipped out.

"Did Ginny and I ever have _that_?"

And, had they?

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"Look, Daniel, I really have to go," Ginny was saying.

"But we just got here."

"It's legitimately an emergency," she protested, trying to free her hands from his vice-like grip. "I'm also not sure if I can do this anymore, but that's a discussion for another time and place." She stood up. "If you—would just—" she managed to wrench one of her hands free and grabbed her scarf and purse, "let—go—" She finally gained possession of the other hand, and grabbed her tea, tossing the rest of it into her mouth.

"Ginny, what is going on?"

She paused a moment to look at the bewildered brunette man whom she had been sitting across from a moment before. They were in a relatively unknown tearoom in Diagon Alley that had once been a favorite lunch spot of Ginny and Harry. Recently, she had begun to recycle it into her dating life.

"Alright," she said, pausing in doing up the buttons on her jacket. "Daniel, you know I just got out of something serious."

"Yeah, like a year ago!"

"Exactly, only a year ago. I'm just…" Ginny paused, and finished buttoning. "I'm really not looking for anything serious right now." She flashed him a sympathetic smile. "I can just feel that that's what you want. Sorry, I'm sure you'll find someone who wants it too."

Daniel stood up. "And you have to tell me this in the middle of a lunch date, while running out on me—why, exactly?"

"Well, honestly!" She huffed. "If you must know, it's because my niece is in the hospital, and she's quite deathly ill. So it's actually kind of a family emergency, if you would just bugger out and mind your own business, thanks."

He came over to her side of the table, grabbing her arm again. Ginny sighed inwardly. "I don't understand why we can't try and make things work," he said, in quite a different tone. "We want the same things."

"No, I really think we don't. I think we want quite different things, actually." Ginny fruitlessly tried to free her arm.

"We've only been seeing each other for a month. Surely things could go on for a bit longer before we jumped to conclusions."

"This isn't necessarily a 'jumped-to' conclusion, Daniel. I've been thinking about this—"

He cut her off as his lips crashed into hers, and his grip on her arm tightened, as he grabbed her other arm, pulling her closer.

"C'mon Gin," he muttered against her mouth. "Let's give it the old college try."

His hands found her hips, pulling her flush against him, and Ginny felt the familiar heat spiral through her stomach. The reason she'd kept seeing Daniel for so long was quite simple, and it didn't involve his personality…

"Daniel, really," she cried, placing her hands on his chest and forcefully pushing him away. "This is neither the time nor the place. I have to go see my niece."

He grumbled, then glared, and Ginny was fairly certain she saw him gesture rudely at her as she opened the door of the tea shop.

"Honestly," she muttered to herself. "The _nerve_ of some men."

"Pardon?" Someone else was entering, looking at Ginny strangely. "What was that?"

Ginny flushed brightly, feeling even the tips of her ears heat up. The woman was much older than she, and exceptionally attractive. She had dark, olive-toned skin that made Ginny's pale, freckled arms look childish, and her long dark hair was swept into an elegant up-do. It left her angular face bare for contemplation, with an aristocratic long nose and penetrating hazel eyes. She was undoubtedly a pureblood, vaguely familiar looking, and she was also one of the most beautiful people Ginny had ever seen.

"Oh, um, nothing," Ginny stammered, feeling like she was sixteen again. "Just, um, talking to myself."

The woman smiled, a mixture between a kind and predatory grin. "You look familiar," she said, stepping outside the doorway next to Ginny to allow another couple to pass. "Don't tell me… Ginevra Weasley. Am I right?" She asked, with the haughty air of one who is rarely wrong.

"Um, yes," Ginny replied politely, fidgeting. She was going to be incredibly late for Hermione. Hopefully Draco was there already.

The woman interrupted her thoughts. "We met, long ago, when you were quite a little girl." She was staring at Ginny intensely, so that Ginny automatically patted her hair, wondering if something was wrong. "You are quite grown up now. How old are you?"

Ginny flushed. "A lady never reveals her age," she said primly, allowing a hint of her spunk to surface. The woman raised an eyebrow, and Ginny smiled. "But, I suppose it's not hardship to admit that I'm nearly twenty-nine."

Her companion nodded. "You barely look it, although I suppose the hair has matured to something of a rich auburn."

Ginny shifted her weight between her feet, unsure what to make of this stranger. She was clearly an old acquaintance of her parents, probably a pureblood she had met before the war had separated them from those circles entirely. Even if they had never been formally introduced, it was highly probably the woman knew who she was—after all, the Weasleys had a fairly recognizable visage.

Suddenly, the older woman whipped something out of her pocket. "I heard about the dissolution of your marriage," she said, almost sympathetically, yet still brusque. "That sort of thing is always difficult, especially when your husband is rather an important figure in the public's eye. It will get better."

"Thank you," Ginny replied, nodding calmly, letting herself absorb the words.

The woman handed over an invitation. "My son, whom I believe you know, has recently been very ill. It was due predominantly to the heroic efforts of your friend, a Ms. Granger, that he has come out none the worse for it. I would appreciate it greatly if you would accompany Ms. Granger and Mr. Malfoy to a welcoming party for him. Naturally, they will receive their own invitations, so don't feel any pressure to inform them of the specifics."

"N-naturally," Ginny stammered, at a complete loss for words, turning over the paper between her hands. It was a heavy parchment envelope, stamped with an elaborate gold-wax seal, and dripping with several ornate ribbons.

"Don't worry. I didn't stalk you down to invite you, it was merely a fortunate encounter at a local café. Nevertheless, it will please me to see you next weekend."

With that, she swept into the tearoom, leaving a bewildered Ginny in her wake. She watched the tip of the woman's fur coat disappear beyond the door, and wondered what exactly she'd gotten herself into.

Then, abruptly, she shook herself, stuffed the invitation into her pocket without further thought, and apparated to St. Mungos.

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Draco held Hermione in his arms, feeling the tension in her muscles evaporate the longer they stood together.

She leaned back in his arms, letting her hair swing down as she relaxed her shoulders and neck. He leaned forward, pressing hot, wet kisses to her neck and collarbones, until she stood upright again, threading her fingers through his hair and drawing him down for a long, hard kiss.

"Thank you for coming," she said against his lips when they were both catching their breath.

"Why, a thank you from Granger?" He drawled. "Wonders never cease."

She shoved his shoulder. "Don't count on it happening too often."

"Then I better make it worth my while," he growled, gathering her in his arms once more and kissing her until she begged him to stop.

"No, Malfoy," she gasped in between kisses and giggles. "We are in a hospital. _The_ hospital, the hospital where I work—stop!" she cried, batting his hand out of her shirt. "Enough, our daughter is extremely ill."

"Our daughter?"

"Well, what would you prefer I call her? Mine? You're the acknowledged father."

He grinned. "No, I like that. I don't think you say it enough. She _is_ ours."

They were silent for a moment, standing together, Hermione's head resting against his shoulder. She looked up. "I just wish I knew what happened to her. I have a really bad feeling about this."

He pulled back so he could look her in the eyes. "Well, first thing's first. Is she going to be okay?" Hermione prevaricated, and he gave her a little shake. "You're a healer. You _know_ these things, Granger, and don't give me some bullshit about jinxing her survival or whatever. _Is she going to be okay_?"

Hermione let out a huge sigh. "Yes."

"Then what's the problem? Why are you still so worried?"

"Because, Draco," she whispered, and a tear slid down her cheek. "_If_. If she had had just a trace more of the poison—if she hadn't thrown up right when she did…if I hadn't recognized the symptoms almost immediately. If not…then…" She hiccupped. "Then she would not be okay."

Draco suppressed the desire to also let out a long breath. "But she _is_ okay," he said firmly, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. "She is okay," he repeated, "and that's what matters now. We can figure this out, we can get to the bottom of this. I will literally hunt whoever is responsible for this, to the ends of the earth." Hermione shivered in his arms. She could hear the echo of who he was raised to be, the ruthless edge of the psychopath that his father had intended him to be. He was fierce, her Draco Malfoy, and he meant every word.

She pressed herself against him again. "I can't handle something like this again, I can't."

"Really?" He asked drily. "Because you seem to be enjoying it _so_ very much."

She shoved him. "You don't look so happy yourself, there. Anything more and I might think you had been worried."

"Nope, the infallible Draco Malfoy does not feel the lesser emotions, such as worry, anxiety, and being ticklish."

Hermione managed a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "I have it on good authority that he feels at least one of those."

Draco somehow managed to look aloof. "I beg your pardon? I'll have you know—" He was cut off as Hermione launched herself at his sides, poking and tickling mercilessly until he fell to his knees in a heap, heaving with laughter.

"I surrender, I surrender," he cried, holding up his hands and falling back to lying on the hospital floor. "I give up, Granger, you've tamed the wild beast." With that he grabbed her hand, jerking her down with a small shriek, so that she was sitting on his stomach. "Oof, Granger, what have you been eating?" He teased, and she raised her free hand threateningly through her laughter.

"I can still tickle you some more," she warned.

He laughed, and before she quite knew it, flipped them so that he was lying on top of her, wrists pinned to the floor. Part of Hermione realized she was in her daughter's hospital room, and part of her simply didn't care. "Gotcha," he growled, and then Hermione laughed until she cried.

A while later, Draco picked them both up off the floor, sitting Hermione on the bed, brushing off her shirt and helping her smooth down her hair. She leaned her forehead against his chest as he stood over her, allowing him full access to her wealth of curls.

She hiccupped, his hands still entwined in her hair. "I need you, you know."

He raised an eyebrow, but could no longer muster a playful tone. "I relish these moments," he said instead. "Your moments of weakness," he clarified upon her quizzical look. "The times when I feel needed. You're such an independent, determined woman, that it's not often I get to play the stereotypical masculine role of the 'foundation' upon which you rest." He saw her smiling, and leaned back against the wall, smirking once more. "It's not so bad."

She got up off the bed, walking towards him in a very un-Hermione-like manner. "It has its perks," she drawled, in her best Draco imitation, and he threw his head back and laughed. "Are you quite finished?" She asked, raising an eyebrow, when he had caught his breath.

"Not even close." He grabbed both her hands and reeled her in, then lunging forward with one knee, caught Hermione in a deep back bend. "Are you quite finished?" He parroted, and she flicked heavily-lidded eyes up to his face.

"Not even close," she murmured.

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**A review? **


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: YES! WE'RE BACK! GOING TO FINISH I PROMMMM! WOOHOO! Okay everyone, I super swear. This story is on track and being written and ready to go. We're rumbbbblinggg. This will be finished by August. Also, thinking about a title change. We'll see. I'll keep y'all in the loop. Sorry, I'm in Kentucky for a family thing and slipping from the Boston primness to my southern slang roots. It won't percolate my writing, I promise. Lots of promises today. xoxo_

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**Chapter 3**

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Draco awakened in the near darkness of the hospital room, blinking to adjust to the dimness. It was late in the afternoon, and the memo was burning a hole in his pocket. Hermione was curled up next to Ophelia on the bed, and he was slightly apart, dozing in the chair, able to slip a hand into his robe without awakening the entwined pair.

He slowly withdrew the small roll of parchment, re-reading the contents. He felt his pulse increase with long-forgotten adrenaline, and knew that if Hermione had been awake, she would be able to sense his fear.

0000

"So, when are you going to ask me?"

Harry looked up in surprise. "I thought that was your responsibility."

"What, asking you?"

"Exactly. Or, I mean, who knows, I didn't want to push. Maybe you wanted to ask Malfoy instead."

Ron barked a laugh, leaning back in to the chair across from Harry. He had gained weight, filling out his cheeks and shoulders. The skeletal, unshaven man from the rehab center was practically unrecognizable, and Harry let out a satisfied breath as Ron's broad smile filled the air. "So, will you do it?"

Harry made a show of checking his calendar. "Hmm… I don't know… April is a busy month for Aurors. You know how people go berserk—spring fever."

"Prat," Ron muttered, kicking his desk. It was Harry's turn to laugh.

"Of course I'll be your best man, you git. Although honestly, I'm surprised you didn't ask Hermione. I'll probably muck it up somehow."

"Some inner instinct warned me that Hermione might not take kindly to that precise invitation."

"Yeah, she'd probably view it as 'insensitive' or whatever."

"It's not like we don't _know_ she's a girl," Ron whined. "It's a compliment when we act like she's a bloke—we're telling her that she's one of us."

Harry nodded sagely. "I know, I know. Women."

"So," Ron wiggled his eyebrows. "Will you be able to wait until spring? April's a long way away from August."

"Whew, eight months. Aggressive invitations."

Ron shrugged. "Luna wanted to make sure nobody got garble-whacked and managed to double book on the date of. Figured that they would have more time to resolve any scheduling issues the earlier we sent out the invitations."

"Garble-whacked?"

"It's Luna."

"Garble-whacked?"

"I guess they're some sort of creature? You know, like the usual thing."

"Seriously, garble-whacked?"

"Enough. Different words, all meaning the same thing. You may say confused or busy enough to not organize a calendar…Luna just calls it garble-whacking, that's all."

"Garble-whacked…Hmm…" Harry pretended to muse. "Garble-whacks beware, then! I'm penciling it in as we speak." He pulled a quill from the cup on his desk and scribbled a note in his dragon-hide planner.

"Penciling?" Ron wanted to know.

"Never mind." Harry finished with the month of April, then looked up at Ron. "Hey, while you're here. You heard about Ophelia?"

"No, what?"

Harry told him about the poisoning, then paused. "There's something else, too, that Hermione doesn't know about. I…haven't talked to Malfoy yet, but I imagine that he's heard something as well, and judging by his character, he wouldn't have told Hermione."

Ron leaned forward in the chair. "Merlin, it gets worse?" He asked, wiping his face with a hand. "This is pretty nightmarish as is."

Harry pushed a sheet of parchment across his desk to Ron. "I barely even know what this is."

Ron read slowly, turning steadily paler underneath his freckles. He finally looked up at Harry, fear crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and causing a slight wrinkle between his eyebrows. "Harry," he said slowly. "What on earth's going on?"

Harry mutely returned his look.

"No, seriously mate—have you shown this to anyone else?"

"Like I said, I suppose Malfoy's got one as well. But if you mean departmentally, then no. What if it's just some kook from up the road, you know? I do have a professional reputation to uphold."

"Yeah, but you also have your _life_."

"Now you sound like Hermione."

"Mate, I'm not kidding." Ron's ears flushed as he argued more vehemently. "Very few people can claim responsibility for that, they've been keeping these killings very hush hush. Just the fact that someone knows all the details—that's worrying."

"The Ministry has barely released any information," Harry sighed. "The public doesn't have any idea what's been going on all summer; they're worried about another mass outbreak of terror. We were hoping to contain it, thinking that the killings were decreasing. And now…this."

"It's just the one? Well, the two, counting Malfoy?"

"Yes," Harry nodded.

There was a long pause, and both men looked toward Harry's Ministry-issue window. It cast a small pool of late-evening sunlight in the corner, giving the room an orange cast. Most people had left for the work day, and silence filled the long, empty halls, pervading the room. The memo lay on the desk between them, where Ron had thrown it like a burnt cookie. Harry sighed, and both men felt a new weight settle around them, as if the responsibilities that come with age had just increased again.

"I haven't felt like this since the war," Ron confessed. "Hasn't been this bad in ages. I dunno, mate, do what you think is best. I s'pose since you've only got the one, you can sit on it for a bit, but I reckon if you start getting loads more you'd better do something, and fast."

"In the meantime, I'm going to put some tracing spells on this, see if we can use it as any sort of clue to find whoever's behind this." Harry shrugged. "Doubt it will yield anything, but I need to feel like I'm doing something."

Ron stood, clapping him on the shoulder. "Talk to Malfoy, he'll have some mad plot. And stay safe. I need a best man." Harry gripped his hand silently, his throat tight.

He watched the larger man exit his office with a mixture of apprehension and relief, realizing belatedly that he was afraid to be alone.

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Draco did indeed have some sort of "mad plot." It was, however, a leap even for a Malfoy, he admitted to himself, and so he was loathe to bring this particular gem to fruition unless absolutely pushed. For the moment, he would wait. He could afford time, and it sounded like the writer of this letter-threat-memo-thing (he stewed silently to himself) had less of that particular luxury. Time, that is, not that ability to write vaguely threatening, highly cryptic messages on scraps of parchment. Draco reassured himself that if he wanted to go into a career of writing blackmail notes—because ultimately, this was what this was, right?—he could do a far superior job of it than this hack. But then of course—he was a Malfoy, after all.

"Malfoy?"

Draco smiled, as Hermione's usage of his surname signaled that the tension of the situation had dissipated. "Ophelia's alright?" he asked.

"She's going to be fine," Hermione smiled, and reached across him to grab a cup of coffee. They had spent the night awkwardly in the hospital chairs, taking turns sleeping and sitting with Ophelia. She had looked better towards the morning, and Draco had finally felt confident enough to run out to the tearoom, pouring a nice cup of earl grey to plot over. There was nothing, Draco knew, like a hot cup of tea and sugar over which to formulate dire consequences for those who got in your way. Or forced themselves into your field of vision via blackmail, which he found irksome.

Hermione's interruption was fortunate, however, as his thoughts had just begun to return full circle, and worry for Ophelia was encroaching on his awareness. She was a coffee kind of woman, his lass, and she eyed him across the mug, humming with pleasure.

"It's disturbing how well you know me," she said, sipping again and sighing. "Down to the infinitesimal amount of cream."

"Don't forget the temperature," Draco replied. "Never understood why you enjoy constantly attempting to burn off every taste bud you possess, but then…There are many things about you that continually baffle me."

She chuckled. "A lady's got to have some secrets."

A rough knocking on the door startled both of them, and Draco uncoiled himself from the flimsy yet cushiony plastic of the chair to admit Ginny Weasley. Hermione and Draco exchanged shocked looks—it was barely eight in the morning, and Ginny's appearance—already frazzled and disheveled—was unexpected.

"I'm so sorry," she blurted, flinging herself on the bed beside Ophelia.

Draco looked at her like she was speaking Spanish, and even Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Ginny?" She asked.

"I'm sorry," Ginny said again, lifting a white-blonde curl off Ophelia's face. "I meant to come by last night, and then I got stopped outside the café, and I got this weird invite, so I apparated home to drop it off, then read it, and I was so surprised that I had to call Padma and then she said that—"

"It's no problem," Draco cut her off. "Glad you came today."

"Ophelia's doing better," Hermione volunteered.

Ginny stood up from the bed, and Draco took her place, allowing the two women to sit close together in the plastic hospital chairs. "And you?" Ginny asked Hermione. "How are you doing?" Draco liked to imagine that Ginny's proximity was healing for her; that even just the slight touching of their knees created by the closeness of the chairs was a medium for Hermione to draw strength. He liked Ginny, liked the way that Ginny saw people below the surface, liked the effect she had on his girlfriend, and so he tolerated her, even if he didn't agree with her divorce or her choice in Harry substitutes. "How are you, really?" Ginny was asking Hermione again, holding her shoulder as if she could shake out a true answer.

"Oh, fine," Hermione said, but Draco noted the tension in her shoulders belying the words. Ginny looked at Hermione silently, her face clearly expecting an elaboration leading to honesty. "Well," the older woman qualified, "fine, now. I just…Well, you know me. I want to know _why_. Why Ophelia? I mean, Draco and I are hardly even targets anymore, so it just doesn't make sense. I hadn't been aware that there was still any residual war blood-traitor stuff or whatever going on."

"There always is," Ginny murmured, then sighed. "But it is strange. I mean, you guys haven't even really gone public or anything, have you? Like, there hasn't really been any media attention about your relationship, so it can't be huge knowledge. So would it really make sense that this would be some random ex-Death Eater out to punish Draco for tainting the Malfoy line," she smiled apologetically at both of them, "or whatever it is they consider it?"

Draco felt the memo burn in his pocket and sweat broke out on his face. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead. "It is so fucking hot in here," he whined, cursing the sweat stains on the silk that he knew the motion would yield. Where were his handkerchiefs when he needed them? "You would think in St. Mungos they could have some cooling charms. Fuckin' a."

"_Draco_," Hermione hissed, looking very pointedly at Ophelia. "_Language_."

Draco Malfoy sneered eloquently. "She is _unconscious_." Ginny held a hand over her mouth to conceal a smile.

"We have to get into good habits."

"Habits be damned. It's August, I'm sweating like a stuck pig, and my daughter is in the hospital. I'm allowed to curse."

Hermione rolled her eyes but was silent. They all watched Ophelia for a minute, and then Ginny cleared her throat. "Hermione? Isn't Blaise Zabini still one of your patients?"

"Hmm?" Hermione looked up. "Oh, yes. He's scheduled for release in about a month, though. Late September, I think? He's been doing quite well. There were some issues with his treatment but now he's almost recovered."

"Long in-patient stay," Ginny observed.

"Yes, like I said, quite a few complications. Why?"

"Well, I told you how I got stopped, hence my delay in visiting. I think it was his mother. The one who stopped me, that is."

"The infamously beautiful Mrs. Zabini? He used to go on and on about her in the Slug Club."

"I forgot you were invited to that and I wasn't," Draco interjected. "How rude."

"I think you managed to blackmail your way in," Hermione said, elbowing him in the ribs. "Nothing like the Inquisitorial Squad or whatever, but good enough."

Draco smiled fondly. "Ah, the Squad. I'd forgotten about that. Lovely memories."

Ginny looked darkly at him. "Anyways, to put the past behind us—where it belongs—" she muttered something that sounded peculiarly like 'ferret,' and Draco and Hermione both aggressively inspected their nails, "she gave me an invitation. To his like, 'I'm better' party or something."

"His return to socialite status? How rude she gave it to you first. I haven't gotten mine yet," Draco said.

"I think mine was sort of an advance case. Spur of the moment thing."

"Very interesting," he replied. "I had no idea she was still engaged in the wizarding scene. When's the party?"

"October first," Ginny said. "So it seems a little ambitious."

"No, he should be out by then," Hermione said. "If all goes well. I better get an invite too; I _was_ his Chief Healer."

Ginny and Draco smiled. "Don't worry," Ginny told her. "Mrs. Zabini was careful to mention that the only reason I was being invited was because I'm your friend."

"Probably also because you're a beautiful young pureblood," Draco reminded her. "Couldn't hurt."

"And unmarried," Ginny added, holding up her ring-less left hand. "Can't forget the best part."

Hermione stood and made a show of busying herself with Ophelia. Draco knew she, too, was still torn on the divorce issue. Harry, he was certain, was an absolute mess, and Draco himself wasn't keen on the way Ginny made light of the whole situation. He knew she was seeing other men now, but what he really wanted to know was if she was seeing her children at all. He doubted it.

"How is that going," he asked her. "The whole single business." He stood, grabbing Hermione around the waist and pulling her back into the chair next to Ginny's, so that she was comfortably wedged in his lap. He planted a loud kiss on her cheek, enjoying the way the back of her neck flushed with embarrassment and pleasure. "I've been off the market for so long, I've forgotten what it's like."

Ginny laughed. "It's lovely." She winked lewdly at them. "Let me know if you decide to go back on."

Hermione grinned, reaching a hand around to stroke Draco's hair, so similar to her daughter's. "I got this man on lock," she said playfully. Draco sat frozen under her touch, impressed by the display of affection from his girlfriend who was usually so hyper-aware of making others uncomfortable by showy touching. Ginny was the most unaffected of them all, simply watching with a soft look in her eyes. Hermione finished with his hair, and he grabbed her hand with his own, twining their fingers together. It still amazed him, how much he enjoyed the simple touches. He loved the way her delicate, Healer hands folded into his own, the slim fingers a shade browner than his own translucent pale. And yet the distinction was clear, as his long, elegant fingers retained a masculine roughness, a lack of refinement that was somehow distinctly male. He loved the half-moons of her nails, in comparison to his more squarish fingertips, and the way they lay, two sides of a coin, forever entwined. He loved Hermione, and he wondered just how much of his love she had been able to guess. Words could only ever say so much; the insufficiency of language was forever a barrier to emotion, and lovers everywhere developed a language of their own. There was a curious burning in his sinuses, and an unremembered pressure behind his nose and eyes, as he looked at their fingers and thought of their child, and the life that, with barely even a year together, he could say that they had 'built' for themselves.

"I could rather get used to this," Draco said, and both the women smiled indulgently. Hermione's smile lasted longer, and held a deeper quality, and Draco knew she understood the weight that they carried, and the secret of their emotion was safe for a while longer, effectively shared between them. He breathed out a sigh, and Hermione relaxed against him.

Just then, Ophelia rolled over, and Hermione bolted off his lap, Draco's arm flopping to the side.

"Mum?" She murmured, eyes fluttering and rolling back into her head.

"Call the Healer!" Hermione snapped over her shoulder, and Ginny hustled to the door. "Mummy's here, dear," Hermione cooed, kneeling beside the bed and smoothing Ophelia's blankets. "Mummy's here."

Draco came to kneel beside her. "Fee?" He asked gently, allowing the rich bass notes to resonate, and Ophelia blinked again.

"Mummy? Daddy?"

Hermione stroked a sweaty curl, lifting it off the child's damp forehead in a motion that mimicked Ginny's earlier one. Ophelia's hair held Draco's icy beauty combined with Hermione's wild freedom, and with the child at age six, Medusa would probably have been jealous. "Shh, sweetie, it's okay. Mummy and Daddy are here, darling. Just relax."

Ophelia trembled a little, blinking again and managing to focus. Hermione took her hand, whispering gently in her ear as Ginny returned with the Healer on duty, who immediately bent over Ophelia, checking vitals and muttering to himself. The three drew back, and Ginny rested her hand lightly on Hermione's shoulder.

"She's awake. That's great," she murmured. Hermione nodded.

The Healer turned around from his bent posture, pocketing his wand with a flourish. "Please, call me Elijah," he said, smiling at them, and Draco frowned suspiciously at Elijah's overly white teeth. Hermione smiled and shook his hand, replying with her name, and Ginny moved to stand next to Draco, patting him awkwardly on the forearm.

"She looks good," Elijah said. "She's strong, and pulling through well. Luckily," he grinned at Hermione, "you caught the heart failure extremely early, and diagnosed it efficiently, so there was no lasting damage. As far as I'm aware, she didn't even go into respiratory arrest for any significant period of time."

"Well," Hermione said bossily, "respiratory arrest is incumbent with heart failure—actually, it can often be the cause rather than the effect. That's one of the areas of my research, is muggle medicine and respiratory arrest leading to acute heart failure."

"Wow!" Elijah drew forward, looking at her more intently. "That's fascinating! We should talk sometime, I'm actually researching extensions of muggle opiods right now. Combined with certain sleeping potions and relaxation charms, you can diminish the dosage while still keeping a very effective handle on the pain. Of course, our research is still in the preliminary phase, really just a few double blind trials, but…"

Hermione seemed to have completely forgotten Ophelia, as she pulled a small parchment scroll from a bundle in her handbag. "Here, this is my department and contact information. Please, I'd love to talk more with you about this at some point…" Draco cleared his throat loudly. "But for the moment," she looked at Ophelia. "What kind of tests can you run to determine what she was poisoned with, and the medium of ingestion?"

"Well, we've taken some samples already, and I'll check with the lab. Based on her symptoms, I'm going to guess it was either that—ingestion—or somehow topical. Going out on a limb," Elijah paused, chewing his lip, and Draco sourly decided it was probably because the younger man had decided it was a way to posture to his own advantage. "I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it wasn't inhaled, seeing as you didn't suffer any symptoms, and even topical seems like a bit of a long shot seeing as she doesn't have any specific rashes or aberrations on her skin…" He paused again, then cracked a grin directed at Hermione. How old was he? Draco would guess twenty three, maybe twenty four. Definitely no older. Elijah finally finished grinning and completed his monoluge. "At any rate, the lab sees a lot of this, especially whenever the Russian ambassadors are in town, so we should have a good idea pretty soon."

"Thanks," Draco said gruffly.

"What's her recovery trajectory look like?" Ginny piped up, and all three whirled to look at her. "Sorry," she squeaked. "Didn't know if you lot already knew, or what."

"It honestly depends," Elijah said with an air of long-suffering patience. "Definitely today she'll be under close observation, and then tomorrow we'll check her vitals again and should be able to issue a more definite prediction. I would say that, as for now, the verdict is she's out of danger, and that was the primary concern. She'll be in and out of consciousness, I'd anticipate, for the rest of the day, and then hopefully tomorrow she'll begin to be a little more lucid. We have her pretty spelled up though, so who can ever really say."

They let out a collective sigh at hearing a final affirmation of Ophelia's status as "O.K." and Hermione's eyes welled up. Elijah nodded to her, turning back to the child to give them a little privacy. One thing, Draco thought, that he did with at least a minimum of tact.

Draco looked at Ginny. The redhead was standing uncomfortably next to the Hermione's mass of curls, stroking the tangled bunch. "You can go, if you want," he murmured to her. "We'll probably just be talking with the Healer for a while and seeing what we can do about Ophelia; hypothesizing what sort of poison was actually used—that sort of thing."

Ginny scanned both of their faces, checking them for emotion. Draco got the familiar uncomfortable feeling he always had when Ginny, or Hermione for that matter, looked at him too closely. He'd never had many female friends as a boy or a young man, and was unaccustomed to the way that they read his face, looking into his eyes as if they were itemizing his soul.

"Alright," she said finally. "I'll leave you two. But let me know if you need anything, and when you all get home and stuff. I assume… Well, let me know wherever you all end up, and I'll drop off some meals or something."

"Thanks, Ginny," Hermione smiled, attempting to break her spell of stress, looking up from staring at Ophelia. She had clearly just missed the silent conversation between her Draco and Ginny. "I appreciate that." She continued staring at her baby, missing the second inquiring look directed at her from Ginny, and then Draco. The blonde man moved slightly to allow Ginny an easy path to the door, brushing Hermione's arm in consequence.

Ginny swished out of the room, leaving the faint scent of flowers that Harry had once mentioned to Hermione was the primary scent of his Amortentia potion. She wondered absently what hers would be, and then Draco wrapped his arms around her from behind, and as she leaned back against his oh-so-solid chest, breathing in deeply the scent of pine and mint and spice, she knew.

0000

Ginny wandered down the hall, bumping into a few people muttering things to themselves and one man who had a pair of newts growing from his ears. His mutterings, Ginny was relatively certain, were not those of a completely sane person. Luckily, someone who looked vaguely official was trailing him with a clipboard, so Ginny supposed was fine. She stepped into the elevator, and looked at her reflection as the soft music played on the ride down. Ginny always left St. Mungos by the door with the mannequins, enjoying the transition from the decrepit, glassy space to the bustling world of London.

Even the glass in the mirror was chipped and slightly foggy; a holdover from the vast warehouse room that held the outdated clothes and cracked tile. She stared absently at it; memories playing over the fuzzy image. Her hair was longer now, almost to her shoulder blades, and had finally reached the deep auburn that she'd yearned for all her life. Her face was pale and smooth, and belied her years. Ginny smoothed at her eyes, still young and fresh, with no crow's feet or fine lines. She didn't look like she'd been married, and had children, and lived a whole life already.

As the elevator came to a stop, she couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or not.

She stepped out just as someone came dashing by. "Hold the elevator!" A familiar voice called, and she was so surprised she promptly dropped her hand.

"Harry?"

"Ah, Gin." Harry's husky voice filled the large, empty room, where the two mannequins stood awkwardly in the glass case up front. Ginny thought one was probably meant to be a man, originally, and the other a woman; their postures were angled towards each other, both withdrawing and retracting, awkwardly stilted and lacking intimacy. She wondered if that was how she and Harry looked together, now—an unfitting familiarity between two strangers, the tacit acknowledgement of a shared life, and the simultaneous exhaustion brought on by togetherness.

Ginny hadn't seen Harry in ages; not since before her foray to Paris, where she'd slept with the Romanian crown Prince and thought of her children. Not since Daniel, who'd helped her remember that coil of elation in the pit of your stomach that comes from seeing someone you fancy. Not for a long time, and looking at his messy hair, it seemed even longer.

"Harry," she said again. "How are you?"

He shrugged, his hair falling in his eyes, and Ginny's hand itched strangely, even as her stomach writhed with an emotion distinctly other than this wispy, wishful remorse. He had no right to make her feel like this, none at all, actually, after he'd trapped her in a boring marriage and given her nothing, and now that they were separated acted as though he'd always try to give her everything.

"Oh, fine," he replied. "Worried about this Ophelia business. You just there?"

"Yes," Ginny said, her curtness stemming from the—could you call it anger?—that she allowed to pulse through he stomach, banishing the unwarranted and unwanted tenderness. "She just woke up. Draco banished me so that he and Hermione could flirt with the Healer."

Harry laughed and then looked guilty. "Um… how are they both flirting with the Healer?"

Ginny tried not to engage; honestly she did. But the sarcastic words slipped out, just as she slipped in to their traditional banter. "Oh, you know. He just stood and growled while Hermione's eyes bugged to epic proportions when the Healer mentioned his research."

"I see. Ten galleons he was doing research on breathing, or muggle something or other."

"I know better than to bet against you."

"Sounds like someone learned a hard lesson, once," Harry joked. "I sense some bitterness."

And then the playing was done, and Ginny looked at him. "Yes," she said. "Some." The elevator dinged, signaling the entry of another person to their discussion, and Harry broke eye contact. Ginny turned, heading for the mannequins, and promised herself that she wouldn't turn around.

She did, only once, and only after the elevator doors had closed. She watched the buttons of floors glow soft yellow as the car moved up, and absorbed the soft dings that ruptured the quiet air, and when it reached the fifth floor, she turned and entered central London.

0000

**review?!**


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